"Life is Compost"

Have you ever maintained a compost pile?

 This is mine - a yucky looking mess of coffee grounds, filters, banana peels, apple peels, crushed eggshells, a branch the dogs broke off in their antics, discarded lettuce, carrot peels, and other such stuff that will decompose. The trick is keeping the wet/dry balance correct. If it is too wet, add newspaper, straw, or other dry materials. If it is too dry (which we deal with here in our arid climate), add more greenery or veggie materials. I go heavy on the coffee grounds and kitchen waste because they add a lot of good, wet matter. Any material that will decompose will eventually turn into compost. Could be years. If you want to speed up the process, a correct balance of wet/dry makes a big difference in the time the pile takes to decompose and become use-able compost.

The result, over time, is this:
a rich, dark colored loamy soil to spread around plants as a mulch, or mix into the soil that will offer minerals and a healthy dose of food and encouragement the plants need.

There are different methods of keeping a compost pile. Mine is in a big plastic bin. Others use an open, fenced in enclosure, or make one out of old pallets. Some use several piles, at different stages of completion. As I keep one pile, adding to it every few days, I have to dig into the pile to get to the good stuff, and sometimes I need to screen out the in-process compost from the completed product.

It is really not complicated. You don't need fancy equipment or chemical additives or a compost starter. Compost will happen.

I loved reading this quote, from Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale. Her character, Vida Winter (an author), is speaking. Puts a thoughtful spin on compost.

"Life is compost.
You think that a strange thing to say, but it's true. All my life and all my experience, the events that have befallen me, the people I have known, all my memories, dreams, fantasies, everything I have ever read, all of that has been chucked onto the compost heap, where over time, it has rotted down to a dark, rich, organic mulch. The process of cellular breakdown makes it unrecognizable. Other people call it the imagination. I think of it as a compost heap. Every so often I take an idea, plant it in the compost, and wait. It feeds on that black stuff that used to be a life, takes its energy for its own. It germinates. Takes root. Produces shoots. And so on and so forth, until one fine day I have a story or a novel."

Four Seasons in Rome

No, I'm not headed off to Rome for a year.

Anthony Doerr did, as part of a year-long artist fellowship he won. He, his wife and six month old twin boys traveled from their home in Idaho to an unknown apartment in an unknown city in an unknown culture speaking an unknown language (except the four hour crash course in Italian he took on a Saturday morning before they left). The journal he kept during that year became this book, Four Seasons in Rome.

"A good journal entry - like a good song, or sketch, or photograph - ought to break up the film that forms over the eye, the finger, the tongue, the heart. A good journal entry ought to be a love letter to the world."

The stories of their walk through the four seasons there, a few blocks from the Vatican, is subtitled, On Twins, Insomnia, and the Biggest Funeral in the World. Beyond recording the events, the adjustments, and the challenges, the book, for me, is a lesson in How-to-Journal.

"A journal entry is for its writer; it helps its writer refine, perceive, and process the world."

The five senses are recorded throughout - a means he uses to process his memories, and a vibrant way for the reader to be involved in the scenes he records. Sights, smells, tastes, touch, and sounds - all carefully, thoughtfully woven through his words. Standing shoulder to shoulder with mourners as the pope dies, and later, pushing their double stroller through the crowd of celebrants as the new pope is chosen. Describing to a baker, the rich bread smells around them, the focaccia bread he wants to order, misunderstanding the frustration, realizing later he was asking, in his broken Italian, for grapefruit sauce. Discovering new foods, making new friends, listening to the language, learning to understand it. Hunting down those vivid details, linking them together to build a sequence of thought, to "stay alert to the miracles of the world."

"A year is an infinity of perceptions: not just the shapes of starlings and the death of the pope and watching our sons learn to walk, but the smell of roasting meat in an alley, the dark brown eyes of a beggar on a church step, a single dandelion seed settling soundlessly onto the habit of a nun who is riding the train. This year has been composed of a trillion such moments; they flood the memory, spill over the edge of journal entries. What is it physicists tell us? Even in a finite volume, there are an infinite number of points."

In a way, this is discouraging. An infinite number of points? How could I ever catch them all? But that's not the point. Grab one. Grab two. Catch three. Record those vivid details, link together the sentences that help a reader (and me, the writer!) to see, smell, touch, taste and hear a world of beauty and miracles.

Anthony Doerr quotes Marilynne Robinson,

"There are a thousand thousand reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient."

I think of Mary Oliver's poem,

"PAY ATTENTION
BE ASTONISHED
TELL ABOUT IT." 

Keeping a journal has been important to me for years. I have a box of old journals stashed in a closet. Never for publication, but for me to thumb back through if I am looking for notes, or find when something happened, or just for browsing. This book, Four Seasons in Rome, is not only an interesting read of their year as a family, as an artist, as an author, as part of a community, but also of the way he perceived and responded to the world around him, brilliant at capturing those images, and how he stayed alert to the miracles of the world. Now, when I write in my journal, I pay attention - not just recording feelings (as in emotions), but capturing a moment in time, using the senses as a means of paying attention, and searching for the right words.

I tried to find a good example of how he incorporates the senses in his sentences. It is an overall impression he leaves. I would call his journals, Impressionistic Journaling. Like the impressionist painters that paint in various dots and smudges and blends of color, but leave a distinct image on the canvas, he paints images with his words that leave a distinct image. Powerful, beautiful writing.

"Everything is radiant. Distant trees toss, faraway walls gleam. The mountains at the horizon have switched on like streetlights, stark and defined, giving way to more distant ranges.
Then everything goes dark again, the clouds knitted together, the mountains sucked back into silhouette, Rome sinking into shadow."

The Road Less Traveled

The Road Not Taken

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

This poem, by Robert Frost, is a favorite. I have probably quoted it here, before.

We found this painting at a thrift store, and "had" to add it to our collection of mountain paintings, destined for our cabin walls once they are finished, beyond the stud stage.  

Since the time change, I have noticed new lighting patterns, the shift of the sun's position and the timing of the sun glow across the walls and floors. Right now, the evening sun shafts across this road, framing it in gold, making what is around that corner almost visible.

Our cabin in the mountains could be right around that corner, the road, its invitation to come and stroll, to welcome the quiet, or hear the wind waves through the trees. 

Signed Stanley Awbrey, 1973, it could have been painted on the road we take, the road to our cabin, one autumn day. I imagine a few deer strolled by while he sat and painted, a chipmunk paused a moment to watch, and blue jays chattered overhead at his plen-air intrusion into their quiet world. I have no idea who Stanley Awbrey is, or where he is now, or what he was like, but I am grateful he took the time to create this moment, preserved in time, for us to enjoy years later.

If I could be like Edmund and Lucy and Eustace and jump into a picture, this would be it. Oh, wait. We do jump into this painting when we go to the mountains, creating our place, there. This reminds me what a privilege that is, and I am grateful.

Very Little

To write a short story, is, for me, a lesson in traveling light. Condense. Refine. Edit. Simplify. Clarify my thinking. Ask - what exactly am I trying to say? Limit the words. Especially for short shorts, a short story limited to five hundred words: how to incorporate protagonist, conflict, climax, and a satisfying resolution in few words.

Working within a framework, within a given, limited space provides form and structure, like an architect designing a tiny house, including all the necessary elements, excluding anything unnecessary.

Process. Practice. Patience - to write, refine, edit, and do it again, over and over.

Every word matters.

Here is my next five hundred word short story. Not perfection, for the learning process, for practice.




Very Little


Interesting things happen in grocery stores. Anywhere, actually, where people are, interesting things happen.

Brandy and I went to the store for two loaves of bread, chunky peanut butter and bananas. We giggled and talked about something silly - I don't remember what.

An older man walked past us. I thought he looked grumpy. Even that made me giggle. Some days everything is funny. This was one of those days.

Brandy said, "A loaf of bread. Mom didn't say what kind, and I have no idea. Shelves, thirty feet long, five shelves tall, six feet high. We could feed two whole schools with all this bread. Shandia, what do I get?"

"What looks familiar?" I asked Brandy. "What does she usually buy?

"Whole-wheat, I guess. This looks familiar. Yeah, this looks good."

Three little girls ran around us. One grabbed Brandy's jeans, to hide behind her. We giggled, they giggled.

Their mom scolded, "Really, girls, can't you behave? Leave her alone. Isn't it enough you smacked into that man?"

"It's okay," said Brandy. "She's just having fun."

"All day long she's just having fun. Nothing serious, ever, for her," the mom complained.

We couldn't help giggling. Brandy squatted down to be eye level with the girl, who gave her a sheepish grin. "You are mischievous, aren't you?" Brandy said. "I think you have a pretty smile, and, I think you should listen to your mom."

The girl glanced up at her mom. The other girls drew closer, drawn by Brandy's friendliness.

"Do you know what my mom tells me?" Brandy asked them.

The three shook their heads.

"'It's good to laugh,' in fact, she quotes some famous guy, 'The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.' And she quotes another famous guy: 'Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself, in your way of thinking.' So, listen to your mom. She knows what she is talking about. Okay?"

Brandy held up her hand, and high-fived them.

"Not bad," I told Brandy. "You quoted a poet and a Roman Emperor to three cute little girls who probably didn't understand a word you said."

"Nonsense," said Brandy. "They understood perfectly. It will give them something to think about while they look at bread and pickles and bags of apples."

The older man turned toward us, a loaf of bread in his hand. "Please, excuse me. I overheard you. My grandmother had that plaque on her wall, 'Very little is needed to make a happy life.' She loved that, she always had it to remind her. Sometimes she didn't have much, but she was happy." He smiled, "Thank you for reminding me of her."

Brandy and I thanked him, then went to find the peanut butter.  I told her, "Even a very little encounter with someone is interesting. Because people are interesting, and they do interesting things."


"And every day has a reason to smile," said Brandy. We giggled.



(In case you are wondering, the quotes are from e.e. cummings and Marcus Aurelius)

A Messy Thanksgiving

This short story is a re-post from three years ago

Monday

Sandy finished the Thanksgiving grocery shopping in the pet department, piling two ten pound bags of peanuts on the already overloaded grocery cart. She smiled. No one would be able to guess what I am going to do with these, she thought.

At home, she organized the food, checked off her lists. This Thanksgiving dinner for eighteen would appear effortless. But, of course, it wasn’t. The work happened now, before. She had separate lists, all organized and thought out, what preparations needed to be made in what order. Some of the family would be arriving late Wednesday night and she wanted to be ready, then.

With the wood floors swept, the furniture moved back against the walls, she turned her dining room table at an angle, assembled the two folding tables and pushed them end to end at an angle across her dining room and living room.

At three o’clock the stake bed truck pulled up out front. She met the two delivery guys at the door.

“Where do you want these bales, ma’am?”

“In here, by these tables.”

“Inside the house, ma’am?” His eyebrows disappeared under the hair hanging over his forehead.

“Yes, they will be the seats for our Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Inside. Really? You know these straw bales are dusty, dirty, messy, right?”

Sandy laughed. “Of course. Yes, bring them in here, please, four on this side, four on the other side. Thank you.”

“Okay, whatever you say. It’s your house.” The tough delivery guys looked at each other and shrugged.

As the bales were moved, wisps of straw floated around.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“No problem, that’s exactly what I want. Messy.”

“My wife would have a fit.”

Sandy laughed again. She wanted an unusual, a casual atmosphere. Unique. A memory. And they didn’t know about the peanut shells, broken open, scattered around. She felt like a giddy girl planning a surprise party for a special friend. A party where everyone has a good time and laughter echoes off the walls accompanied by the music of happy talk. Okay, she thought, maybe I am dreaming and being unrealistic. We haven’t had a peaceful family get together in quite awhile. Someone takes offense, someone irritates someone else, criticism flares. But, it is worth a try. I will do my part, and hope.

Everything would be white or canvas or gold. Enough color, just in the food. And the people.  The gold colored straw looked pretty scattered across the wood floor.  She pulled more pieces off the bales and scattered them around. Then, she covered the bales with canvas drop cloths, their edges tucked in underneath. They would be heavy enough to prevent straw poking seated bottoms. Another couple of longer drop cloths covered the tables, hanging down the sides. Gold spray painted gourds were placed randomly on the table.

 Oh, napkins. She forgot to buy white cloth napkins. Well, on Wednesday, when she picked up the flowers, she could go to the store and get the nicer, heavy, white paper ones. They would do. She added them to the list.

Tuesday

When Sandy walked down the hall into the living room Tuesday morning, she wondered what her husband, Jim would think of their house. He was away on a business trip until Wednesday afternoon. By then, she would have it all set up and messy beautiful. Her email invitations said, “Boots and jeans.” But would they imagine just how casual she meant it to be?  The floor needed more peanut shells, just like at their favorite pizza restaurant. In fact, she thought, that is where they should go for dinner Wednesday night. She would take Jim out to dinner. Get a few more ideas. Her son and his wife and the grandkiddos wouldn’t get in until late. She and Jim would have plenty of time to relax over dinner, talk about his trip, and enjoy some time together before the long weekend.

After her coffee and oatmeal, she spread the three lists out on the island, leaned on her elbows, her shirt sleeves rolled up, chin cupped in her hands. One list for what would bake in the oven. One for food that would be prepared and stored in the refrigerator.  One for menus, with added ideas for meals the rest of the weekend using leftovers. The tasks were already in order, prioritized by length of prep time and use of the oven. Normally she wasn’t quite so OCD, but she wanted this Thanksgiving to be easy breezy.  Certain people conflicts in the family had lightened up over the past year and she wanted, desperately, to be sure they stayed that way. But, not to worry. For now, start the pie crusts and mix the pumpkin bread. Turn on the oven.

Between tasks, waiting for the timer to ding, Sandy worked on the table. At each place setting she set out white plates. For place cards, she marked peanuts with a dark brown Sharpie, the letters of each person’s name. If the letters didn’t come out quite right, she smashed the shells and threw them on the floor. It wasn’t easy. She tried to make them fancy, ornate with swirly lines and flourishes. The bumpy shells were not a good writing surface, but she wanted to keep the theme. She decided that messy looked just as good, and it was better to fit each name on one peanut if she could. She experimented. Greg. Kendra. David. The longest name was Jessica. That took two peanuts. As she practiced and improved, the crunched, empty peanut shells deepened on the floor.

All day, the dishes rotated from island to sink full of soapy water and back again. Pie crusts baked. Pumpkin and cranberry breads ready to go in next. Sweet potatoes cooked, mixed, plopped into the baking pan, refrigerated until Thursday. Broccoli steamed, cheese sauce mixed, refrigerated in its glass baking pan. Water boiled, jello mixed with fruit, half of it chilled, then the other layer added and chilled. One by one, the items checked off her list. She wiped up flour and spills and splatters, then made more as she worked.

For a late lunch, she made a sandwich and sat in the big chair tucked into the corner to admire her decorations, absorb the yummy smells. Bake the pies, almost done. She relaxed, imagined the room full of happy, comfortable people. To her, this work, this weekend, was about reaching across the distance that was measured in more than miles.

As she was sliding the last pie shell full of liquid pumpkin on to the rack, her hand slipped, the pie tilted and spilled on the hot oven floor. It sizzled and smoked. Quickly, she set the pie on the counter and reached over to shut off the oven. That would have to cool before she could clean it out, then reheat it. She didn’t want the smell of burned pie overpowering the other wonderful aromas and interfere with baking the turkey Thanksgiving morning. She left the oven door open to cool faster. Well, it won’t take that long, she thought. She checked over her lists again. Almost done.  Not too bad, only one major mess to repair, then finish cleaning up the kitchen.

The cat came down the hall and stepped into the living room. She stopped and sat, looking around at the changes, unsure. She decided it was safe, took a few steps into the room. A peanut shell crunched under her foot. With the foot held in mid-air, she froze, like a dog at point, then turned and ran back to the bedroom. Sandy laughed at her. We won’t have to worry about her coming out here, she thought.

Wednesday

By noon, she felt ready. Almost. A few more tasks on her list, but everything was under control. She had cleaned the bathrooms, made up the guest beds, and swept off the porch, trimming some of the chrysanthemums that still bloomed. The day was cold and cloudy. At least I don’t have to sweep and wash the floors, she thought. She wiped down the front of the refrigerator and the stove and ran a dust cloth over the glass table top next to the couch. She looked forward to seeing the six grandkiddos all together. They hadn’t seen Greg’s twins since June. David, Becky and their two boys lived ten minutes away and they visited often. Jack and Kendra, with their two, Jessica and Ken, lived an hour away, not too far. Greg would be arriving tonight, the others in the morning. A houseful of noisy fun. She liked that.

Three o’clock. One last check of the lists. All crossed off. One trip out. She would stop at the florist to pick up the white osteospermum spoon daisies she ordered. And run into the grocery store to pick up the large white napkins she forgot to buy on Monday. She would tie them into a roll with a piece of twine. Easy and simple.

Later, as she stepped in the door, out of the pouring rain, arms full of flowers and a grocery bag, the phone rang. She set the things down on the table. Dropped her wet coat on a chair.

“Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Hi Greg. I thought you would be on the road by now.”

“Mom. I am sorry. We are not coming.”

Silence. “You are kidding, right?”

“No, Mom, we are not coming.”

Silence. “Do I get an explanation?”

Greg answered in short, nervous, quick bursts. “Janet decided she wanted to have her own Thanksgiving. You know, in her own home, now that we have moved to this house, she changed her mind, said she wouldn’t come, wanted to stay home, keep the kids here, with her, on her time off from work, for the holiday.”

“Well, that is reasonable, except last minute. What can I say? Is this about not getting along with Kendra?”

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe, you know how they are together. She just said she wanted her own Thanksgiving. Mom, try to understand. I know you will understand. Please don’t be upset at me, or her.”

“I will really miss seeing the twins. I’m sure they have grown since we saw them last.” Sandy sighed. She tried to smile, at least with her words, but it was hard. Seemed these conflicts, lately, made family gatherings like walking on egg shells, afraid to offend, afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid, just afraid. She had wanted this to be different. And she thought it would be. Filled with laughter and fun and relaxed. Oh well, what could she do? Holidays could be messy. “Greg,” she said, “Say hello to the twins from me, and Janet, too, and have a wonderful holiday.” She didn’t mean it to sound sarcastic, but it came out that way, a little bit.

“You, too, Mom. Say hi to Dad for me.”

Sandy hung up the phone. She sat in the chair at the head of the table, looked down the length at the plates, already set, the golden gourds, the pile of flowers she had dumped at the other end. Four empty places. Should she rearrange? Wallow in disappointment? No, she thought, I’ll get the flowers in vases and water. No point in letting this ruin it for me, or for anyone else.

Outside, the rain pelted the windows and the wind whipped the tree limbs. Darkness fell early, the storm clouds wrapping a dark thick blanket over the sky. Again, the phone rang. Sandy looked at it, not wanting to answer. She heard her own voice, the cheerful message on the machine. Then, Jim’s voice.

“Sandy. Guess you are out shopping or something last minute. Our flight has been delayed…”

She grabbed the phone, interrupting his message. “Jim, I am here, sorry.”

“Oh, good, glad you are home. This storm is interfering with flights. I hope Greg will be fine on the road.”

“They are not coming. I’ll tell you later. When do you think you will get in?”

“They said about a two hour delay. I will call you when we board.”

“Okay. I want to take you out to dinner, to the pizza restaurant. I will meet you there, after you land.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call you, soon, I hope.”

“Be careful.”

Someone knocked on the front door. Oh, now who could that be, thought Sandy. She opened the door and saw her neighbor, an older woman she rarely talked to. “Evelyn, come in.” She helped her take off her wet coat.

“I am so sorry to bother you. I know you are very busy.” Evelyn looked at the table. “That is, ah, interesting. Straw bales and peanuts?  Rustic. But the table is pretty. I am so sorry to bother you,” she said again.

“That’s okay. My husband just called to say he would be late. Come sit down.”

“Well, we just had a big tree branch fall on the back of our house. Broke through the patio cover, broke two windows on the back side.”

“Oh, I am sorry. Where is Fred, is he okay?”

“Yes, we were in the living room. I wondered if you have some tarp or something we can put up over the windows. Not too much rain is coming in, but the wind is bad. And the cold.”

“I think so, I will go look in the garage.” She stood up. “Evelyn. I just had a great idea. Our son and his family called to say they are not coming. We have extra beds, all made up, and room at the table, ready. Will you and Fred stay here tonight, and join us for Thanksgiving tomorrow?”

“We couldn’t impose on you like that, don’t be silly.”

“It is not silly at all. Like I said, I have the beds all made, the places for you at the table. It will be much warmer here until you can get the windows fixed. Jim can help you, but with the holiday weekend, it may be a few days before they get fixed. Please, stay with us. That is, if you don’t mind a casual meal. And our kids and grandchildren. I thought the straw bales and peanuts would be fun, for a change. Comfortable.”

“I noticed. Wondered why you were doing that. Most people get all fancy.”

“I will get the tarp, then we’ll go over and ask Fred to come. Please, I want you to come. I know Jim won’t mind. He will be glad to help you fix the tarp when he gets home. Oh.”

“What is it?” asked Evelyn.

“Well, we were going to go out to dinner. I was going to meet him after his plane landed.”

“I have a chili in the crock pot at home. Fred and I could still eat that, and come here after you and Jim get home. I would appreciate it, being able to stay here. It will be cold at our house with that wind and the damp. You are very kind.”

“Actually, it helps me not feel so disappointed that our son isn’t coming. I am glad you can stay with us. Very glad. You can see we have plenty of room for you.” Sandy pointed at the table.

“We will be honored. I wasn’t going to fix anything this year. Too much work for just us. Our kids are all busy, or too far away. We will enjoy being with you, being with your family. Much better than sitting by ourselves. Thank you.”

The scattered straw and peanut shells are evidence of my messy life, but even the messes are worth celebrating and sharing, Sandy thought.  I will accept this. An opportunity to help a neighbor, maybe gain a friend. I can enjoy what we have, use what we have, and share Thanksgiving, thankfully, with family and friends.

Windshield Goals

We have reached the end of February. Do you look at your New Year goals like this? Something you wrote down two months ago, part of the New Year planning, and now they are behind you. Unaccomplished. History. Looking backward instead of forward.

Donald Miller, on his Storyline blog, wrote a week long series, "Start Life Over." In the introductory post, he writes about the value of change, and he quotes two friends of his who own a successful restaurant. They said, "Life should be viewed similarly to how we look through the windshield of a car...the windshield is much larger than the rearview mirror."  Don adds, "Keep looking forward. Know where you are going and steer the car toward something new and exciting. And you can't do that if you're always looking in the rear view mirror."



I realized how often I think of my goals with a backwards thought. Guess that didn't work. What was I thinking? So much for that unrealistic time-frame. All those unfriendly failure words spoken in my head. But, instead, if I see them as Windshield Goals, the perspective changes. I am looking ahead, out the windshield, the road in front of me rather than behind. Any smart driver will tell you this is a much better way to drive - look through the windshield rather than the rear view mirror. Good driving involves a glance in the rear view mirror, but the attention is focused - forward. Of course, we say. But do we live that way?

Each day, on my daily list, I write my three main Windshield Goals as a reminder that I can take steps today toward them. Not big things, just little steps. And it moves me toward them, rather than seeing them disappear into the past, faded in the rear view mirror. The skill of resilience has its foundation in this, this ability to focus forward rather than on events of the past. How to navigate the next turn, the upcoming curve in the road? Focus ahead. Pay attention.

Sometimes, Windshield Goals can look like this. Blurred. Low visibility. Confused. Wish you were somewhere else. I took this photo last May. On the way home from a beautiful spring mountain drive, we encountered a surprise storm. Unexpected. Sudden. But we made it home, following the lines on the road, slowly, one mile at a time.

What if we looked at our goals as something in front of us? Ahead.

Forward looking.

Forward living.

Not full of regret or that sinking feeling, failed again.

Hope. Possibility. Do-able.

Try again.

Forward living. 

A much better choice.

This post is linked with Emily Freeman and Chatting At the Sky,

What We Learned in February.

Instead of feeling a failure, instead of those sinking regrests,

I can move forward.

For me, this is a huge lesson.

As Don said in his post, these paradigm shifts can change the way we view our lives, and the way we live our lives.

Green light ahead, GO!

A Friendly Year

Love the title of this book. Aren't we all looking for a friendly year?

Three hundred and sixty-five daily entries were compiled from Henry Van Dyke's writings, published from 1887 to 1905, this book published in 1906. The front page says, "From Ralph, xmas, '07." Would that be 1907 or 2007? Hmmm, I wonder.

I rushed the reading, anxious, I guess, to find that friendly year, reading two pages each day, four entries at a time. I tried to pick a favorite quote - the one I posted in January, A Footpath to Peace is probably the favorite, but there are many, many choices.

Because this book is out of print, I will share a few others with you.

"And if some of the rich of this world (through the grace of Him with whom all things are possible) are also modest in their tastes, and gentle in their hearts, and open in their minds, and ready to be pleased with un-bought pleasures, they simple share in the best things which are provided for all."

"...ready to be pleased with un-bought pleasures..." - love that line.

What a surprise to find pressed flowers, placed in this book over a hundred years ago?! You won't find that in a Kindle or a Nook (sorry, had to put that plug in there for books with pages you can feel). Was there a special quote on this page that inspired these flowers, which look like Johnny Jump-Ups? Maybe this one, from April twenty-fourth:

"By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me,
By the length of the mountain-lines that stretch before me,
By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in motion,
Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean,
(Oh, how the sight of the things that are great enlarges the eyes!)
Lead me out of the narrow life, to the peace of the hills and the skies."

Henry Van Dyke makes reference to the fast pace of the age, the distractions and clutter of their busy lives. What would he think of today?

"Let me but live my life from year to year,
With forward face and unreluctant soul;
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal;
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils;
But with a whole
And happy heart that pays its toll
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.

So, let the way wind up hill or down,
O'er rough or smooth,
The journey will be joy:
...My heart will keep the courage of the quest,
And hope the road's last turn will be the best."

May your journey be with joy, your year friendly, and the flowers you press last a hundred years!

Ten Things I Learned in June

This post, linked with Chatting at the Sky, is sparked by an idea from Emily Freeman. She started it on her blog, a way to zero in on the random thoughts and lessons and challenges and growth from this month.



1. When a baby bunny is surprised or afraid, it hunkers down, motionless, lays its ears flat on its back and looks just like a pudgy rock. "You don't see me!" I was out front watering and it stayed perfectly quiet until I got too close - then it bounded off like a rock[et]. Fascinating to see how animals are equipped for survival.

2. On a home garden tour, I saw many of the same plants grown in each yard. Each yard, though, had a completely unique feel, attitude, look, character. You and I may plant the same plants, but each of us will create our own unique expression with it. This was a wonderful lesson in creative individuality. It is not the tools that make it unique, it is what we make with them.

3. Japanese Beetles are a destructive nuisance in my garden. Garlic juice (home brewed) helps, but I ended up pulling out the affected plants.

4. I can keep my desk cleared off - well, almost. The sticky note function on my computer is a great tool - keeps the papers from floating around my desk. Oh, and if my desk is cleared off, I have to dust it! Never had to do that before...Thanks to The Nester's challenge, I can keep an uncluttered desk.

5. "Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending."                            -Carl Bard
This quote, and a post by Allison Vesterfelt on the Storyline blog, really got me thinking. She says, "The smallest decisions I make during my day say a lot about me...I love the fact that the word for 'character' in a book, and the word we use in English to mean 'the essence of who we are,' is the same...Our character [is] the compilation of small actions and experiences over time...And of course we can't control all of our experiences, but the closer attention we pay to our 'character,' the more power we have to carve it into something we can be proud of in the end." My smallest actions, my choices, my attitudes, all tell the story that is my life. Life is not necessarily determined by heroics, but by the day in, day out small stuff.

6. I love having a dog in the house. Really missed her when she was gone for a week with her boy. (Missed her boy, too).

7. Letting go does not get any easier with the younger kids. You'd think I'd be used to it, would know how to do it by now. Nope. It still takes a calm effort to trust and quietly, confidently release them. To allow them to wing it on their own, trusting that their roots will not tether them, but give them security and self-confidence to fly on their own.

8. Zucchini Chocolate Chip Cookies are not a big hit. It's like I committed a horrible crime, mixing vegetables and chocolate. What was I thinking!

9. Pomodoros really do work when I am stalled or disoriented. Just 25 minutes. Just this. Now.
www.pomodorotechnique.com. A lesson I seem to need to re-learn repeatedly. I forget. Then learn it again.

10. I do not like novels with gut splattered relationships. I like happy endings, not novels that leave me depressed, discouraged. I want to be encouraged, to read of characters who make mistakes and mess up, but who learn and grow and develop hope and love. This is how I want to write. I also do not like bad language in books. Writers should use real words that mean real things. Do we really have to have bowel movements or male puppies of female canines mixed in character's conversations? I don't think so.

Rhythm

Five Minute Friday: Five Minutes to write, to listen as the words flow, to hear the voice, to sound out the rhythm.

Rhythm

Much, too much of life's music, I miss. Focused on the discordant chaos I see, like a grotesque surrealistic painting, my perspective becomes twisted and warped.

My wave petunias are being ravaged by caterpillars They munch away, gnawing at every stem and petal until the shreds of past blooms hang limp and ragged. Someone complained to me recently about the birds shredding her petunias. When I noticed the blackbirds hanging around my pots, I watched out the window.  One stood guard on the back steps, the other hopped along the edge of the pot. It reached in and plucked - not a stem or piece of bud, but an inch long green worm. The birds instantly became my friends. A few moments later, their family, mom, dad and two little ones danced around on the lawn, the mom stuffing yummy green worm into the baby's open mouths.

How often in life do we misunderstand the enemy? How often do we see incorrectly? How often is the very thing we think is destroying the beauty and music of life actually part of the beauty and rhythm and music of this wonderful world the Lord has gifted to us? Perspective makes all the difference. Watch, pay attention, hear the rhythm of days and seasons and give and take. If we listen, the rhythm is there.

The Heart Sees

"...having the eyes of your hearts enlightened, that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, and what it the immeasurable greatness of his power toward us who believe..."

Ephesians 1: 18-19 ESV

Last Monday I wrote about seeing with your heart. I was thinking in terms of understanding, artistic perspective, or seeing beyond the obvious. Later in the week, I read this verse in Ephesians and caught my breath. "...the eyes of your hearts..." Your heart sees. With eyes. Wow.

I cannot explain it or claim to understand. But I love this thought, and look forward to learning more about this. One comment on the Monday post said we should include a "heart-sense" in addition to the five senses of sight, hearing, touch, taste and smell. Perhaps there are other senses we should be aware of, too? What do you think?

Imagine the Life

Five Minutes. Write, five minutes, the words smooth and flowing, the ideas, a discovery.

Today's topic: Imagine.

Imagine. Goals. Plans. Visualize. Dream. Dream Big. Vision.

I have a notebook. Pictures cut out, pasted in. Things I want to do, to have, a life I want to live, a goal to work toward. Looking forward, out there, in the someday. Fast forward to then, when life will be all I imagine.

But wait. Hit pause. Today. Now.

The bean sprouts in the garden, reaching for the sky. The piles on my desk telling me I am far from bored. The snoring from the bedroom, the son still cuddled up with his cat. The high cloud cover this morning, filtering the sunlight, coloring the fresh greens of spring. The ideas, the flow of thoughts as I read and write this morning. The smile, the touch as my husband says good-bye and heads off to work. Music to play, to hear. Plans for the weekend, the garden tour, time to sit out on the deck and read, weeding that wants to be done. The fan overhead brushing cool air across my desk.

This life, now, here. This is to be lived in the fullness of all I imagine. Love, joy, peace, rest, beauty - it is all here, now. Not in some imagined perfect future. In perfect today. And I smile, seeing it all in a new light, a fresh perspective, a deep gratefulness for all that is here, now.

Switch it Around

We have lived in this house for eleven months, almost. A few months ago I felt like the kitchen arrangement just wasn't working. The kitchen isn't that big, but there were a lot of unnecessary steps. For several weeks, I thought about how I used the pots, the baking stuff, the pantry goods (we don't have an official pantry space here). How could I make it better, more efficient, more practical?

The end result? I turned the kitchen over on its head and switched around the contents of  the cupboards, drawers and cabinets. The silverware went into the drawer closest to the table, reversing spots with the measuring cups and spoons, moving them into the drawer on the island. The pots and pans went into the deep corner cabinet with the turny thingy. The pantry goods moved from the turny thing (I'm sure it has a better name), to under the island where the pots and pans had been and where my smart husband added metal wire shelves supported by blocks of wood on either side. Impermanent, flexible, made from pieces we had in the garage, cost, zero. And it doubled the storage space in that cabinet. The cereal drawer switched with the flour and baking supplies.

 The next few days I heard lots of, "Where did the coffee go?" "What did you do with the cereal?" We all settled into the new placings quickly, showing how much better organized it all was. Once in awhile we do still go to the island drawer for the silverware. Old habits die hard.

Every time I open the corner cabinet for a fry pan or a pot, I smile and think, yes, this is where these should be. When the cans and boxes of macaroni and jars of whatever were in there, something would fall off when I spun it around. This is much better.

What things in your life could benefit from switching them around? Maybe the stuff on a closet shelf would work better somewhere else. Or, even better, thinned out and headed out the door. In the months we have been here, I have enjoyed the results of all the thinning out we did when we moved. But the time has come to go through things again, eliminate, clear out, and enjoy more empty space. So much better to have space to breathe, space to grow. What could you switch around?

Thirty-Eight

A moment out of moments

of a life,

thirty-eight years together.

We still ask, "What do you want to do?"

More a time to be, be together,

than to do.

To look back to the hike that day

when he asked,

and I said, "Yes,"

thirty-eight years ago.

Today's hike,

plan, dream

wonder at life, together.

Still say, "Yes."

The scenery ahead,

mountain highs

valley lows

storms brewing

 turbulent waters

clear skies.

Wander through the next thirty-eight years,

together,

hand-in-hand.

scenery from our anniversary weekend at Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado

Pollyanna

We finished reading Pollyanna, by Eleanor H. Porter, aloud, together, again. It is one of my pet peeves that this book has become a tool to make fun of those who attempt to keep a heart of gratefulness. Her name has become associated with the definition, "an excessively or persistently optimistic person" (Webster). Is that really a bad thing?

One friend of mine wouldn't allow her children to read the book because she said it made fun of church. Well, yes, it does make fun of the Ladies' Aid Society and their bickering and fussing about new red carpets and their ultimate concern in having their name at the top of the donation list. Yes, it does poke at actions done for the sake of righteous duty without a heart of love. At its core, this book is deeply Christian, about the love of Christ and His heart of love reaching out to each of us.

Pollyanna, with her childlike heart, only sees the love and beauty in those around her. She hangs prisms in windows to splash rainbows across the walls. She fixes up a sick woman's hair and adds a flower to make her pretty. She connects with people she meets, talking openly and making friends with those considered unfriendly. She bounces from one home to another, spreading laughter and joy and gladness. With her sunny smile she laughs and talks her way through the days and into the hearts of the townspeople.

Not because her life is simplistic and easy. Orphaned. Sent across country to be dumped on the doorstep of an unwilling aunt. Of the scanty possessions she brings, the most important is The Glad Game. Her father, a missionary pastor in the west, taught it to her before he died, and together they sought to have a perspective of gratefulness no matter what happened. He told her that he found eight hundred "rejoicing" verses in the Bible, and that if the Lord told us that many times to be glad, He must have wanted us to listen.

From her perspective, all is good. She never questions that her aunt doesn't want her. She never doubts that he aunt's generosity won't extend to cats, dogs and little orphan boys.

The test of Pollyanna's Glad Game came when she herself was bedridden. She cried as she learned she was paralyzed, "...if I can't walk, how am I ever going to be glad for - anything?"

The friendships, the connections she made, the lives she touched, all came together to encourage her and open an opportunity for her healing, and for the healing of other strained relationships. Because of her bubbly enthusiasm, even in (especially in) tough circumstances, homes were restored, families strengthened and hearts encouraged.

"...he told me to tell you that he hadn't stopped being glad over those eight hundred rejoicing texts that you told him about. So you see, dear, it's just you that have done it. The whole town is playing the game, and the whole town is wonderfully happier - and all because of one little girl who taught the people a new game and how to play it."

Need some encouragement? Read Pollyanna. She'll make you smile. Maybe even glad.

Look Up

This weekend we visited the first gallery where our artist daughter displayed her work. This is pencil, on canvas.

Love the perspective here, the familiar sight, yet a different angle.

A reminder, our perspective makes a difference: how we view life, the world, those around us.

Be small. Look up.

Lessons From the Garden

Saturday, our daughter and I attended a Western Landscape Symposium. Partly because we are new to this area, this unique climate, and mostly because we love plants and gardening, we looked forward to a full day of learning and listening to experienced gardeners who love what we love. She signed up for a plot in a community garden which she can start working in next month. I have a raised bed with chard, beets and spinach held over through the winter, and in a couple weeks can start some of the cool season crops.

We were surprised by how much the speakers love what they do. Their delight and enthusiasm was contagious, whether they were talking about soil or bugs or landscaping or vegetables.

The gal who talked about knowing the condition of our soil is a thirty year veteran of soil study and soil love. (I have some sons I thought might make a career out of dirt, the way they reveled in it when they were younger.) This gal thrilled to talk about and share her knowledge. Obviously, what she shared with us was just the tip of the iceberg of all she knew: chemical properties, the living, breathing processes going on in our soil, [a new term I learned: aggregation, the microbial exudates (micro-poo) that aggregates in our soil, increasing the porosity, aeration and drainage in our soil - love that thought, micro-poo from all the critters in the soil], and that some factors of our soil cannot be changed. Some things we just have to accept and work with. For example, here in the west, our soils have lime. In the east, gardeners add lime. She suggested a test. Put some soil from the yard in a container and sprinkle vinegar on it. If there is lime, it will foam up, like when you mix baking soda and vinegar. We tried it when we got home, and sure enough, the dirt fizzled and sizzled. The presence of lime means certain plants will not do well. Don't expect to grow eastern plants in western soil. Accept that, and plant what thrives here.

Lesson:  What do I love to study and talk about?            
             What conditions do I need to accept and work with, not against?
             How about you, how would you answer these questions?

The bug talk was my favorite. A huge surprise because I am a gardener squeamish around bugs and crawly things. Ugh. This man, an entemologist walked onto the stage wearing red converse. We knew right away he would not be boring. Understanding that the larvae and the different stages of an insect's life each require a different type of food, shelter and needs was fascinating. He actually plants certain types of flowers and plants to attract those shuddery creepy crawling things I attempt to avoid. Or eliminate the moment I see them. He encourages them. He encourages his grandchildren to admire the caterpillars that will turn in to beautiful butterflies, accepting the little bit of leaf damage they do as part of the process of the beauty they will create as the mature butterflies flutter around our gardens drinking nectar from the flowers. I have a new perspective. When I see one of these caterpillars, I can think, "Oh look, you are a baby butterfly." I won't go so far as to say, "Cute," but I understand, in a new, deeper way, that there is give and take in nature, in my garden, and accept the processes that go on as part of God's created world, part of His design. 

Lesson: Those in life who bug us, who annoy us - understand they have needs of their own and when possible, provide for those needs. If we understand and accept, we have a better chance to happily co-exist.

The gardener who talked about growing vegetables was a many year veteran of community gardens, working in schools, low income neighborhoods, churches and businesses, offering classes and advice to encourage healthy eating and understand our food and where it comes from. He also was a deep well of experience and information, listing specific varieties that do well in this area and techniques, full of stories and joy that overflowed as he described delicious produce. Made me want to crunch on raw vegies, fresh from the sun-warmed garden (a few months from now).

Lesson: The work we love should be shared with others, for their benefit and nurture.

Where we live is considered high desert. Many of the homes landscape with rock. As renters, we work with the landscape our owners put in, which, fortunately for us, includes some patches of grass and evergreen shrubs. With the decorative rock. I don't mind, as long as there is some green, and they said I could plant whatever I wanted. We will be under water restrictions this year, limiting plant choices. We have lived with water restrictions before, and I know how to be wise and save what water we can to use on the plants. The gardener who talked about landscape listed many, many beautiful plants that require little water, flourish in this climate and offer much more beauty than rocks. I can't wait to get started - another week or two, and we can start planting. Yes!

Lesson: No matter where we live, whatever our circumstances, with creative thinking and work, we can create little spots of beauty.

photos from Passionate Gardening, Lauren Springer

Halcyon

My one word theme for 2013 is quiet. I meant to write more about it, delving deeper into various meanings, but this past month I have felt, well, quiet. Haven't posted as much as usual. Not sure exactly why, but my excuse is practicing quiet.

When I think of my ideal quiet day, I think of the beach. The beach, however, is not a quiet place: waves pound on the shore, wind roars across the sand, seagulls screech, sand blasts against your face, your clothes are blustered and hair whipped by the wind. I had to laugh when I thought of it that way. Why do I think of the beach as a quiet place? Perhaps because it marks some of my favorite get-away destinations. Visits with families who had a beach house gave us moms time to chat and breathe while we kept a quiet eye on the kids. House-sitting opportunities at a beach house gave us the luxury of living in a place we could never afford. There are memories of beach-side hotels that offered pleasant retreats for my husband and I. Visits with distant family meant beach trips in Hawaii and the Gulf of Mexico. One house where we lived was close enough to the beach to take frequent afternoon trips for the kids to play in the water and the sand. Even with the wind howling, the waves crashing and the seagulls screaming for our food, beach days were quiet days.

At one beach house where we visited friends, a storm moved in. The tides were predicted extremely high, swallowing the sand, up to the low brick walls protecting the patios. Over the afternoon we watched the ocean turn from blue to green to gray to violet to indigo to navy blue to black, and the storm was on us. A quiet afternoon? Not in the forces of weather, but the kids all played outside as long as they could, tossing the tennis ball into the water and watching for the waves to toss it back, their sweatshirts wet in the cold spray.

From our house where we lived in the central California coast area, we would drive to the Pacific Coast Highway, turn north, and travel about thirty minutes to Pismo Beach. It was a great kids' beach. A long, slow, gradual slope, waves that came in gently at low tide, hard-packed sand perfect for playing and building. We loved to go mid-week, a benefit of home teaching, after the morning school work was done, a quick lunch packed, and often, the beach was practically deserted.

One drive, I don't remember why, we turned a different route off the Pacific Coast Highway, left on a street named Halcyon. At that point, we were still on the bluffs, the homes high, overlooking the coastline. After a block or so, the road appeared to drop out from underneath us. It plummeted, seemingly straight down for several hundred feet. The kids all screeched, some in panic, some in delight, like on a roller coaster ride. (I admit, other times when we drove this route, I would crest the top of the hill and let off quickly on the gas pedal to create a greater feeling of anti-gravity and increase the fun.) The road dropped quickly to sea level, to fields of strawberries, lettuce and broccoli, crops that flourished year-round in that perfect sea climate. Never too hot, never too cold, ideal for growing.

Halcyon looped across the green fields and joined the road that took us along the coast to the section of beach we liked. The dictionary says the word halcyon is from the name of a legendary bird that "had a peaceful, calming influence on the sea at the time of the winter solstice." The afternoons at the beach created for us a calming influence. A time to relax and play, to enjoy being with each other. I would take a book, but rarely read it, choosing instead to gaze at the waves and the kids playing together, and watch for the occasional dolphin or sea lion. We loved to go in the winter when the beach was pretty much guaranteed to be empty. The water was too cold to swim, but they would play, tossing a football or frisbee. Or, they would build sand creatures or castles. Or sit and enjoy the scenery, no responsibilities, nothing to do but relax. Or collect seashells. Or bury each other in the sand and take silly photos.

"Halcyon days," is a phrase from literature and music, denoting nostalgia and remembrance. Our granddaughter, when she was little, knew to go to her "happy place" when something frightened her. We were at a lively restaurant with animated animals displayed in the jungle scenery. When the elephant above our table trumpeted, she quickly retreated into her happy place, her eyes shut tight, humming a little song to herself. Then she cried and a kind waitress let us move to a table less populated with four legged creatures. For me, the beach is my happy place, a place where the tranquility and beauty soak into my soul, creating a sense of deep quiet.

When I realized, however, that the beach is really not a quiet place, I also realized that the sense of quiet can be achieved in the middle of a normal day's chaos. The noise of a normal household, the clashing personalities, the challenges of learning and growth, the demands of duty and responsibility all create wear and tear, like the waves pounding out their rhythm on the ever-changing sand. Even here, there is calm and beauty and peace and halcyon days.

We do not live near the beach anymore.  I am learning that a state of quiet is from within - not a result of idyllic external circumstances. It is rooted in a tranquil heart. At any time I can choose to retreat to my quiet place, a place of trust and love and being loved and grace and being deeply grateful. There, always, there is quiet. My biggest surprise in understanding quiet is that it is not about stillness or quantity of words or volume of sound. There is an energy in quiet, like the ocean waves surging deep below the surface, powerful. And I still have much to learn about quiet.